


The Rock

by sksdwrld



Series: Asterisk [34]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 14:45:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8165590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sksdwrld/pseuds/sksdwrld
Summary: Mike is the understated rock of the family.





	

Daniel had been gone for a year. More than just away from him, more than just locked away in a cantankerous prison cell. Really gone. Dead and gone. There were days when Elliot still had trouble reconciling that. Days when he loved and hated the man with everything he had.

"Nobody knows," Elliot breathed to the night air and a gentle breeze blew in response, rattling the branches of the trees above him like old bones. The leaves whispered like lovers and Elliot stroked his fingers over the worn cover of _Bleakhouse_ as he sat before the dancing flames of the fire pit in his grandfather's Adirondack chair.

Of course, the book in his hand wasn't the one Daniel had given him. Elliot had recovered none of his possessions from the house in Connecticut. It was only a thrift store copy, smelling faintly of mold and dust older than Elliot, but it had comforted him to read the novel as he had done in that furnished, poorly lit Tudor. Sometimes, if he closed his eyes, he could almost smell the leather sofa in Daniel's office where Elliot had spent a good part of his life lounging.

"Wrong," he shuddered out the word and blinked back tears. Then with a sudden ferocity, he tore the cover from the book and flung it toward the fire. It landed at the base of the pyre and for a few moments, it simply sat there, mocking him. The heat licked the edges, burning them black until small flame flickered to life and quickly bled across the hatched cloth-covered cardboard, consuming it.

 _Elliot, we don't ruin books._ The stern faced memory scolded a little boy who was tired of rote after a day of being locked in a closet and in his haste to shove the book away, had torn a page.

Elliot rubbed the inside of his left arm where the skin was tenderest, as though he could still feel the pinch. "Stupid," he chastised himself with a cough and a sniff, then tore out another handful of pages. He balled them up and threw them in the flames to be consumed.

He glanced down at the ragged edges. The book stared back at him, rife with accusation. The wind caught the edge of the pages and ruffled them, and with a strangled sob, Elliot began to strip them from the binding, one after another, and flung them at the fire pit.

_I hate you. I loved you. How could you? Fuck you. So alone. I have nothing. You fucked me. You fucked me. I'm fucked because of you. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck--!_

"Elliot!" Strong fingers seized his shoulders and slid down his arms, calluses catching on the fabric of his jacket. "What are you doing?"

"I hate him, I hate him!" Screeching, Elliot tried to wrench himself from his grandfather's embrace but Mike only tugged him back and held him tighter.

""I hate him too," Mike's voice was a soft gruff in his ear. It was unexpected and Elliot quieted, waiting to see if there was more to come from the man that Elliot had come to respect as the quiet rock of the family. No more words were offered but Mike's rough-whiskered cheek pressed against Elliot's smooth one and a whimper bubbled out of Elliot. 

"Lemme see that book, Skeeter..." Mike slipped down to a crouch beside Elliot, groaning softly as his knees popped. 

"Skeeter?" Elliot frowned and looked down at the ruin of Bleakhouse, feeling a pang of regret before passing it over.

Mike took the book, holding it in his hand against the arm rest of the Adirondack chair as he maneuvered himself down onto the ground. Elliot thought he caught a hoppy whiff and wondered if Mike was drunk or just drinking. "Yup. You were so busy, always buzzing around, here, there and everywhere. You were my Skeeter-bug. And then, one day..." Mike slapped his hand against the exposed pages of Bleak House and the noise made Elliot jump as he wiped the tears from his eyes. "You were gone."

His fingers curled at the edges of the book, ruffling the pages before he tore half of them from the binding. He offered the bound half back to Elliot and slowly, he crumpled a page, then threw it in the fire. "Your grandmother always prayed for you to come back, but I..."

Mike's voice cracked and he balled up two more sheets of paper for the fire before clearing his throat. "I never did. Not after they found Brigid, anyway."

Elliot felt his throat tighten again and just like that, the tears were back again. His fingers pressed down into the second half of Bleak House, but hey stayed silent.

A heavy sigh accompanied Mike's sagging shoulders. "I didn't think there was a chance you'd survived. Whatever crowd she was running with...they weren't any good. You know. For you..." More pages went to the flames and Mike seemed to be rolling the words in his mouth. Weighing them. Tasting them. "For you, I prayed it was quick. Painless. That the wonder of your innocence wasn't spoiled by the filth of society. That Jesus called you home before anything terrible happened. And I...I prayed we never found your body. Because I didn't want to know that my prayers had been in vain." Snuffling, Mike groped backward until his hand touched Elliot's shin and he gave it an awkward squeeze.

"I was wrong." Mike hazarded a look over his shoulder. His eyes were glassy and the firelight reflected in them. "I was wrong, and I'm sorry. Elliot...I was scared and selfish and...and every day I'm so thankful that you came back to us."

"But I was," The words bubbled out of Elliot and brought more tears. "I was spoiled, ruined, broken--"

"No," Mike's cheeks were wet now too and his hand scrabbled up, hooking Elliot by his clothes, tugging him down into a hard embrace. Mike's fingers gripped the back of his neck. "No, you're not any of those things. You're my...you're still my grandson. And maybe I haven't done enough to let you know, Elliot...I tried so hard to give you space and support without forcing anything on you, trying to understand and get to know you, that I haven't done enough to let you know that I love you just the same."

A strangled sob tore it's way from Elliot's throat and his half of Bleak House was jammed painfully into his ribs by the impromptu embrace. His grandfather's lean-muscled frame was wrapped up in an old, soft flannel that smelled like wood smoke and cigarettes and Elliot wiped his face on it like he was a small child.

After a minute or so, Elliot felt stifled and pushed back from the embrace. Mike let him go and wiped his face on his sleeve. By the time Elliot had arranged himself on the ground in front of the fire, Mike was holding out a cigarette to him and had another one tucked into the corner of his own mouth. He lit each in turn and then they sat staring at the flames, pretending, Elliot supposed, that neither of them had seen the other cry.

"What is this book, anyway?" Mike said, squinting at it before crumbling three or four sheets together and tossing them in. 

"Bleak House," Elliot said, thumbing the pages he'd practically memorized over the years. "Originally published by Dickens as a weekly series in a newspaper. It was my favorite."

Mike grunted thoughtfully then tossed the remaining sheaf in his lap forward. The pages curled as they burned and ashes floated up. "He give it to you?"

"Not this one," Elliot said softly and stroked his fingers over the ruin of the novel as he sucked the last of the cigarette down and tossed the butt into the fire the way he'd seen Mike do with his own. 

"It's just a book, Elliot," Mike said with a sideways glance and Elliot guessed the Mike thought he regretted tearing it up. That wasn't the case, of course. "I'll buy you another one, if you want."

"I know. Thank you. I..." He hefted what was left of the book in his hands, then tossed it onto the fire. It felt like sacrilege. "It's what it stands for. I don't want another one right now. I just want that chapter of my life..to be over."

"It is, if you're ready." Mike felt for another cigarette. Elliot put his hand in his pocket and rubbed the face of his lighter. Mike's old engraved Zippo.

"I'm ready." He handed the lighter over.

Mike took it and after he lit his cigarette, examined the lighter. Smoothed his thumb over it the way Elliot had done. "I remember when your grandmother gave this to me..." He glanced over at Elliot and found him watching attentively so he settled back, still looking at the lighter. "It was after your...after Brigid started kindergarten and Shari picked up a few hours at the convenience store in town. She always liked being busy, you know. Your grandmother, she doesn't know the meaning of rest...but she gave this to me for Christmas that year. Must have cost a small fortune. Everything she'd earned, maybe. They didn't have engravers in the mall then, the way they do now. You had to take it special. She made time for that. In between taking care of the kids and the house and working. And that's what this really means to me, Elliot. The gift of time. Of thought." 

Mike hefted it slightly then offered it back. Elliot's throat was tight and he didn't reach for it. "Jude should have it. It should stay in the family."

With a look that was more resigned than surprised, Mike leaned over and took Elliot's hand, then placed the lighter in his palm and pressed his fingers down around it. "Elliot, you are family. You're my oldest grandson. And while it pains me that you don't remember that, I understand." His hand was still on Elliot's and he squeezed it. "I haven't forgotten, though. I want you to have it. I love you."

Elliot couldn't maintain eye contact. He pulled his hand away from Mike and clutched it to his chest which was tight around his rapidly beating heart. There was a long, awkward silence and finally, he forced out the only words that he could muster. "Thank you."

Mike gripped Elliot's shoulders and the two of them stared into the flames.


End file.
